


loving you was priceless

by Jade_Masquerade



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mentions of Death, Political Jon Snow, The Prisoner!Jon fic no one probably asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 17:06:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19750057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Masquerade/pseuds/Jade_Masquerade
Summary: Sansa pays Jon a visit the night before his dragonpit trial.





	loving you was priceless

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Silence" by TENDER

Jon knew he was a northern fool. 

He’d gone south not once, but thrice, and now he was about to pay dearly for it, just like Robb before him, and just like the only man he’d ever known as a father. 

There was a macabre kind of poetry in that, he supposed. He’d spent little time pondering the death that awaited him, but he couldn’t help thinking that this time around there was no longer any sept with a crowd gathered before it, eager to see a traitor receive the consequence he deserved, nor any celebratory wedding feasts to be held. There weren’t even any Lannisters left besides Tyrion, who he knew was also held in chains somewhere else in the remains of the Red Keep. 

No, he was certain there would be no mercies of a sharpened greatsword, no kindnesses of offered regards taken this time for him, if they could be called that. This would be daggers in the dark all over again, the retribution for doing what he knew to be right. 

Outside his cell, the sliver of sky that told him morning from noon from night, and one day from the next, darkened. It was a small consolation he could see it at all, the black cells beneath the Red Keep destroyed in the carnage Daenerys had wrought. He pictured how it would look as the sun set over Blackwater Bay beyond, imagining it was the only pretty sight to behold amidst so much destruction.

As he picked over the scant bit of food his gaolers left for him that had grown cold, night began to settle, perhaps the last he would ever see. By this time tomorrow he might be a dead man, and all for what? Perhaps he deserved it, after all. He’d played the game and he’d failed, not the first and likely not the last either, Iron Throne or not.

It shouldn’t bother him, he knew. He never thought he’d leave King’s Landing alive, and whether his death had come with him skewered at the end of a Lannister soldier’s sword, or drowned by the Ironborn, or butchered on Cersei herself’s orders hadn’t meant much to him. He’d been ready to die a half dozen times over the span of this second life he’d been given: when he’d been cornered and buried by the Bolton armies in the fields beyond Winterfell, when he’d stared down Drogon and then climbed upon Rhaegal’s back, when he’d fought against the dead and faced off against an ice dragon during the Long Night. 

But he’d survived all those, only for it to end like this, with him a broken man, crushed by the weight of duty, alone, and still, he would have done it all over again given the chance. 

All he had trapped here was time; time to think, time to pace, time to agonize over his choices while his mind spun, wondering what if, reliving every possible version of events, every moment and how he could have chosen differently, every word or action he’d taken since he decided to leave Winterfell for bloody Dragonstone in the first place. Guilt gnawed at him, each one serving as a painful reminder of how he’d bungled it all, how he’d never been one for playing these kinds of games. 

And even in those darkest moments, he couldn’t bring himself to regret what he did. If he hadn’t, all of Westeros might lay in ruin now whether its lords bent their knees or not, incinerated while he stood by, trying to tame tyranny with words of love and promises of fealty. What they called him now— _queenslayer, oathbreaker, kinslayer_ —whether or not they referred to him as bastard or king, hero or traitor, who he became known as in the songs, he cared little. He’d never wanted gratitude or glory. 

Wherever she was, he hoped Sansa knew. He hoped she knew what he’d given for his family. He hoped she knew she was right all along. 

Wishing to avoid thinking of Sansa and the heartache it brought, he rose and proceeded to ready for bed. Each day a pail of cold water was delivered along with his meal, and while he permitted himself a scarce bit to drink to quench his thirst and relieve his throat from the ashy air, he used the rest to wash to maintain some semblance of his humanity. 

Aside from that, he didn’t have a looking glass, but he was well aware of his unkempt appearance as neither a comb nor a blade had been included with the bare minimum necessities provided to him over the moons he’d been held here. He cupped the dregs of the bucket and drew his fingers through his hair to dampen it, ignoring the knots they snagged upon. Unbound, his curls had grown unruly in the relative warmth of the south, but there was nothing else that could be done about that. 

He dressed again, leaving his laces loose, and laid down upon the rough straw mattress in the corner. Despite his eternal boredom, sleep was often not easy to come by. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw it all again: Varys being sentenced to death, Daenerys swooping down and unleashing fire on the very people she claimed to be her own, chaos erupting in the streets. He saw them, those who had most suffered the repercussions of his inaction, the ashen, twisted bodies he passed entering the city, the babes burnt in their mothers’ arms, the smallfolk who managed to escape with their lives and nothing else. He even saw those who were not innocent and yet were still made victims of this game of thrones, those up on the parapets manning the scorpions as they tried in vain to defend their city, Lannister soldiers who fought until the bells rang and then surrendered only to be cut down, the northmen killed by his own hand.

Some nights, when he was fortunate, instead he saw Arya, Bran, and Sansa in the godswood of Winterfell, his mother’s statue in the crypts, Ghost lingering after him in the courtyard, but any slight joy he found in visiting them however fleetingly through his dreams quickly evaporated upon waking and being faced with his reality again. 

While he recognized he should rest if he wanted any chance of having his wits about him tomorrow, Jon found it impossible when his mind swirled with thoughts of his sins and again what tomorrow would bring. Whatever it was, he hoped his sisters were at least spared the sight of it. He understood if Sansa had preferred to remain in the North with Bran, but he expected at least Arya would be there as they dragged him out before whoever saw fit to judge him, so that he might pay for his transgressions, whether they were those he should truly atone for or not. He knew what Sansa had seen, their father being thrown down on the steps of the Sept of Baelor, knew how Lady Catelyn had watched as archers felled Robb with arrows before he took a knife to the heart, knew what Arya had witnessed outside the Twins after as they mocked the King in the North. 

_Spare them that this time,_ he prayed, though he was more certain than ever there were no gods to hear his pleas. There’d been nothing there on the other side, after all. Perhaps it was better off that way. What kind of gods would allow his family to suffer all they had, or would stand by as a city of a million burned? 

The sound of a metal key scraping in the lock broke the night’s silence, and he sat up. 

Would they really come for him now, at this time? His heart pounded with the fear that perhaps they never meant to extend him the farce of justice, that maybe the Unsullied would execute their own form of it worse than death itself, that he would never have the chance, however brief, to see his family again. 

Instead of guards wrenching him from his bed, the thick wooden door opened and shut again. 

Moonlight shone through the window, glinting off red hair, and his visitor held a torch in hand, but she didn’t need it to illuminate his chambers. Sansa was brilliant enough alone. 

“Sansa,” he breathed, wondering if he should trust his eyes after all this time. Had his tortured imagination simply conjured such a thing, a last gasp to console him before death? Either way, this was his chance to make things right. He wondered what to lead with, an apology or an explanation or just a confession. 

He didn’t have a chance to decide, though, because Sansa placed the torch in the nearest bracket, ran to him, and pulled him into an embrace. 

“Jon,” she said, his name a rush of breath against his cheek. The feel of her body against his convinced him she was really, actually, truly there in this hell with him.

“Why are you—have you—they haven’t…” He stumbled over his words as he took her in, lingering in turn on her blue eyes filled with tears, the way her bottom lip trembled, how her chest heaved with every quick breath. 

“Arya,” Sansa explained. “She had a face from an Unsullied she took after the battle against the Others.” 

He couldn’t help but give a short laugh at that. It was still strange to him, all the things his little sister had done, who she had become. He took solace in knowing Arya would stand beside Sansa long after he perished, protecting her from anyone who might do their family harm. 

“Bran told us you were here, that you were alive, but I didn’t… I couldn’t… I’m so sorry we didn’t come sooner.” Her words twisted to a sob.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he said, forgiving her for what might have been the hundredth time. Each time, it seemed to repair a bit more of the damage that had been done to his soul. “I’m… well, I’m alive.” 

She stepped back and glanced over him. He shifted beneath her appraisal, wondering if he’d register disgust on her face as she looked over his untamed hair and his neglected beard, the skin of his chest prickling as she drew her eyes over where the open neck of his tunic bared it. He flushed, failing to think of any possible way to surreptitiously tie the laces of his breeches without bringing further attention to his rumpled state. 

“I’m all still here,” he said, forcing a smile. 

Sansa gave a laugh even as a tear slipped down her cheek. She swiped it away and quickly gathered herself again. “The North remembers. We have several thousand men standing outside what’s left of the city walls, enough to make a stand against the remaining Dothraki and Unsullied if it comes to it.” 

He grimaced. “It’s not worth it. There’s been enough death, enough destruction. There’s no need for any more.” 

“You try telling that to Lord Glover or Lord Manderly,” she said. “They’ll take it as a personal slight against the memory of Lyanna Mormont and all the rest who died in defense of the North and fought for its independence. Be thankful Tormund Giantsbane had already left for the Wall when the raven with news of your fate arrived, or I’d imagine he’d be here with us in this very cell right this moment.” 

Jon shook his head. He’d insulted the memories of plenty already, and while he didn’t doubt what she said about Tormund, he didn’t want to tell anyone anything except for her, and where to start with such precious few moments left? The bliss of sleep had been alluring before, but now that Sansa was here, he could ease the burdens he’d carried, he could repent. 

She must have mistook his silence for consideration because she continued on, “That’s not all. We’ve brought the might of Riverrun and the Vale too—along with my uncle and cousin—”

“Sansa,” he sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. He wasn’t inclined to spend his last hours strategizing or talking military plans. How could this game go on and on, when there was no throne left for which to play?

“I know you’re tired of fighting,” she said. “I don’t wish for it to come to that. We’ll negotiate, we’ll explain the laws of Westeros, we’ll make them see reason.” 

He did not mention that each of her plans seemed more impossible than the last. He had all the confidence in Sansa’s political abilities, but the Unsullied made even the likes of Ser Alliser and his sarcasm and mockery seem jolly and just in comparison. “Have they named you queen?” 

Sansa blinked at his question. “No.”

“They will.” He’d never been more certain of anything in his life. 

“Not while their king lives.” 

“You won’t have to worry about that for long.” 

Her eyes grew teary again, but this time she did not let them fall. “You’re their king.” 

“I was,” he said. “The king who knelt, the king who gave away the North, the king who abetted a massacre. Not exactly one to be remembered fondly, I’d imagine.” 

“Jon, I’m not leaving you here, in this place. You didn’t give up on me once. You fought for our home. You fought for me. And I plan to do the same.” Her voice rose with thinly veiled panic, and he realized Sansa understood perhaps better than anyone. She’d been held as a prisoner here once in all but name, and she too had been accused of killing a king. 

It wasn’t the same, though. Sansa had been used unwittingly as a pawn in someone else’s game, not held the knife in her own hand. And after, she’d been spirited away in a shroud of secrecy, leaving another to take the fall in her place. If that was what it took to free him, he couldn’t let Sansa take that risk. 

“The Unsullied have been impatiently awaiting the day they can take my head since the moment Drogon took flight over the horizon.” 

Sansa jutted her chin at him. “Do you think I would let them? I won’t fail this time.” 

She reminded him of Arya in that moment, determined and defiant, and he thought of their father again, of how Sansa had begged for mercy for him, of how she screamed herself silent then, of how she learned to fight battles her own way, with words and exchanges and diplomacy. She’d need more than all that to free him now though to satisfy a thirst for revenge and to reason with the unreasonable. 

When he spoke again his voice came out hoarse, strained from the efforts of speaking once more after so much disuse. “This isn’t the battle for Winterfell. I killed their queen. I killed _our_ queen.” 

Sansa laughed, the sound a pleasant one even if he was confused by it. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t. I know how you felt about her. Or how you had to act you felt about her, anyhow.” 

He bristled. “You knew?” 

“I suspected as much. Watching the two of you together. Acquainting myself with her. All the talk about _‘who manipulated whom.’_ ” She flashed him a wry grin that made his heart thud in his chest. “I certainly didn’t think it was you who fell victim.”

“You could have told me,” he said, his pulse quickening with the implications of Sansa knowing how he truly had felt for Daenerys. If Sansa had read that in his mild mannerisms and guarded expressions, what else had she caught onto?

“I would have, if you hadn’t always been kept busy pretending to simper after her or had ears for anything besides word of the Night King.”

Had he been so ignorant? He’d never been one for interpreting subtilties or understanding subterfuge, and it had gotten him killed once before. _You know nothing, Jon Snow._

“Anyway, I didn’t come here to argue or talk about the Dragon Queen.” 

She took a step closer, and he felt his blood heat the way it did whenever Sansa neared. “Why did you?” 

“To prevent you from doing something daft on the morrow.” Her expression softened, steel turning to something sweeter. “You can’t punish yourself forever, Jon.” 

For a moment, it didn’t matter where they were—they could have been in Winterfell, sitting in front of the fire sharing ale or up on the ramparts watching the courtyard fill with snow or walking out to the godswood. They were just the two of them, as they had been a hundred times before, and yet he felt that pull again as he ever did in Sansa’s presence. He’d never allowed himself to act on it, of course, not even when he questioned if Sansa herself felt it too, and now that wonder bubbled to the surface again as Sansa stood right there in his reach. 

But they were five hundred leagues from Winterfell, and they weren’t laughing at stories from their childhood, bickering over whose turn it was to take the last lemon cake, or discussing who more deserved the lord’s chambers. 

He caught her hand in his, hoping to soften his words. “This city burned, because of me. There are nearly a million dead, because of me. I stood beside as abominable injustices were carried out. I gave away the North as a placation. Before that, I took a crown never intended to be mine and Winterfell along with it. And the way I feel for you…” 

He paused his list of crimes, fearing he’d given away too much, that she would hear the truth there in his voice as she did with so much else. Did she deserve to know, or would he curse her too? Did he want her last memory of him to be one of betrayal? 

“It’s not a crime to love your family.” Sansa tightened her fingers around his, and he thought of the words he cherished most, her words, when he’d claimed he was not a Stark, and she’d told him with certainty, _“You are to me.”_ Would she take them back if she knew how he truly felt? Would this prove he was a Targaryen after all, both loving the woman he grew up with as a sister in a way that violated the natural order of things and participating however unwittingly in the unleashing of fire and blood? 

What did it matter? He was damned to hell anyhow. “That’s not what I meant.” 

Sansa stared down at their joined hands, seeming to mull over his words before she brought her gaze back to his. “And what about me, then? Do I deserve to be condemned the same as you?” 

His mind ran with the things Sansa had done—she’d lied and killed, manipulated and defied, played the game much the same as anyone. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to find any sympathy for the likes of Meryn Trant or Joffrey, Ramsay or Littlefinger, Daenerys or Cersei. “That’s different. You’ve…” 

“Done much the same as you. Felt much the same as you.” 

Before he had time to think, before he had time to ask if she misunderstood his intentions, before he scarcely had an opportunity to register how close Sansa had stepped, the way her eyes flitted over his mouth, and the quiver of her lips, they pressed against his. 

Any semblance of a protest died the moment her tongue traced the curve of his bottom lip, and without a second thought, he gave in and opened his mouth to her. Their kisses rapidly turned from tentative and tender to heady and heated, his body starved for touch after so long in isolation and even longer from any true affection. 

Sansa seemed just as hungry, just as eager as she swayed against him, equally as dazed as he felt with each kiss growing deeper and deeper, and his hands slid to her hips to steady them both. He could walk backwards to bring her towards his bed, but he wouldn’t permit Sansa to lay on a mat of filth and fleas; it was enough that she touched him in this state, not that he would even be worthy if he wore his finest furs or freshest fragrance. In any case, his pallet seemed leagues away, an impossible destination to reach with the way they already tangled together, all lips and limbs. 

Jon maneuvered her beside the window instead, where moonlight streamed in through the bars, and pulled away so he could look upon her face. Sansa gleamed in the silvery glow, her hair artfully twisted back in one of the braided styles she favored, her lips reddened by their kisses, and her blue eyes darkened. He was ever more certain he looked affright in comparison, his hair and clothing a bedraggled mess, his chest heaving, and perhaps worst of all, his cock throbbed in the bit of space where Sansa pressed against him, embarrassingly hard already. 

He didn’t know what to do, how to resume again or if he should. He didn’t know if he could dredge the words up to describe the way he felt inside, to tell Sansa what she deserved to hear, all the things he had spent his confinement wishing he could share with her if he only had the chance to see her once more. 

Instead he took her hand and kissed the back of it, letting his lips linger there before he drew them both to cover his heart. When the corners of Sansa’s mouth quirked upward in a grin, he murmured, “I’ve always wanted to do that.” 

“Is that all?” she asked. “How innocent of you.” 

He couldn’t be certain, but he suspected her cheeks flushed as she teased him, and he felt more blood make its way south, leaving his brain bereft. 

“No.” His voice came out rough, and he cleared his throat before he spoke again. “I don’t think some of my other wishes are fit for a lady’s ears.” 

Sansa glanced up at him from beneath her eyelashes, and this time he was absolutely positive he could see her face redden when she whispered, “There’s a great many things I’ve thought of doing with you as well.” 

“Oh?” With what little capability his mind had left, he imagined Sansa touching herself in front of the fire while she thought of him, of her soaking in the bath while her hands slid down her body as she longed for his presence, of her doing all of the depraved things he’d done while coping with his own desire for her. “And—and what would those be?”

Sansa demurred. “You might think me wanton.”

“I was a man of the Night’s Watch, Sansa. I don’t think there’s much that would leave me scandalized.” 

She smiled at that and tilted her head back, her hair falling away and the cut of her dress exposing the length of her throat all the way down to the swell of her breasts, and he licked his lips in anticipation of running them down that long, perfect line. “I—I wondered if you might kiss me there…” 

He needed no more prompting than that to grant her first wish. Sansa was the utter opposite of the conditions he’d become accustomed to during his captivity: her skin was soft and smooth beneath his hands as he skimmed over it, unlike the roughhewn blankets of his pallet, her warmth contrasted with the cold and dampness of his cell, and she smelled like lavender and lemons rather than mold and the squalor of King’s Landing. 

An hour ago he’d been a dead man, but now as Sansa pressed her lips to his temple and her hands caught in his tunic to pull him closer and she sighed his name, he felt more alive than ever. 

She’d left the ends of her hair loose, and his hands stroked through the strands as he returned his mouth to hers, swallowing Sansa’s whimper as she cupped his face in her hands. 

Sansa broke away, this time taking her turn to study him. “And—and I wished to know what you would feel like…” 

He paused as she touched him, her fingers sliding from his beard, knotting in his hair, and then gently drifting over the scar which graced his eye, down to the one on his cheek, and further to those of his chest as he struggled to remain still while she explored his body, every fiber of his wanting to touch her, taste her again. 

“What else?” he prompted, his eyes closing and his breath coming harder as he wrestled to control himself as Sansa’s caresses beginning to move lower, and when she readjusted herself against the wall and inadvertently—or perhaps on purpose—brushed against his aching cock, he groaned. 

She noticed his lapse and writhed again, catching her own breath with a squeak as his body responded again against hers. 

“I want to know what it would feel like for you to love me,” she whispered, and in that moment he didn’t think he would know the name of the city they stood in if he were asked, he didn’t think he would notice if his gaolers entered his cell, he didn’t think period, so taken was he with Sansa and the ardent way she looked at him, the earnest way she’d said those words. 

“I do,” he swore. “Sansa, I do love you… I’ll say it as many times as you wish.” 

“That’s—that’s nice, Jon,” she said, the special kind of smile she seemed to save for whenever he was being particularly dim playing on her lips. “But it’s not quite what I meant.” 

“What do you—” She gave him a more meaningful look and his brain finally caught up, using every last ounce of blood it possessed to process. “Oh. _Oh._ That.” 

Sansa kissed him again, yet even more passionately this time, and any doubts he’d had about her intentions vanished. 

He allowed his hands to roam, learning every curve of her body which he’d always contented himself to merely admire from afar, wrapping around her waist. Her dress was not one he’d seen her wear before, the fabric midnight blue, dark grey, coal black, he couldn’t be sure—it all looked the same in the dimness here, and anything would have paled in comparison to Sansa anyhow. He felt more than he saw as his hands worked their way upward, and he found himself glad she no longer shielded herself with the leather armor she’d worn as of late.

Instead his fingers slid over the softness of silk, the intricacies of lace, before they reached the bits she’d embroidered. It was too dark to see for certain, so he was left to wonder if it was direwolves this time or red weirwood leaves or blue winter roses. Whatever had caught Sansa’s fancy, tracing their path led him directly to cupping her breasts, and she broke their kiss with a gasp as he palmed them before he dipped his fingers beneath the neckline, pushing the fabric as low as it would allow to free as much of her flesh as possible. 

Even in his haste Jon couldn’t bring himself to ruin her handiwork, but Sansa had no such qualms. His shirt tore as she attempted to find her way beneath it, and he shrugged it away without a care; it was ragged and threadbare anyway, and in all likelihood he wouldn’t need it beyond tomorrow in any case. Tossing it away only served to provide a bit of relief in the form of cool air, his skin heated by the way Sansa ran her hands down his chest and lower still to tug free the laces of his breeches. 

Need churned in his belly, and pressure built already when he hadn’t so much as even touched or tasted her yet. As he gathered her dress in one hand, he discovered she wore boots beneath it but no stockings, no petticoat or slip, nothing but her smallclothes. He didn’t dare take them off, lest they be lost somewhere here and left behind for his captors to find come morning, so he merely slipped them aside to feel her wet and wanting. 

If they had the time, there were a thousand things he would do to her, a hundred ways he would pleasure her before he sought after his own, but Sansa already had her leg wound around his hip, her hand curled around his cock, and she positioned its tip at her entrance. 

“Sansa…” he groaned, his tongue feeling both thick and useless in his mouth as she slid his length through her wet folds. 

“Yes, I’m certain,” she said breathlessly, and with her consent it was too, too easy to thrust upward and bury himself in her heat. 

He told himself to be gentle, languid, and sweet, but Sansa squeezed around him and scraped her nails down his back, holding onto him as though her life depended on it, and he couldn’t restrain himself any longer when he realized perhaps it did, and his did too. 

He bucked his hips and Sansa whimpered for more, urging him into a fervent, frenetic rhythm that had his heart thumping and his skin hot. He’d worked to keep his strength while trapped here in the event it were needed for his own defense, pacing and practicing his footwork and pulling up on a bar exposed by the crumbled ceiling, and he used every bit of it now, bearing the effort of holding Sansa up as she clung to him, luxuriating in the way it felt when his muscles bunched beneath her hands, lifting her leg higher so he could drive deeper and pulling her down on him in turn. 

Sansa wrapped herself tighter around him with each thrust, and he felt her lips slide to his shoulder and her teeth sink in there as she tried to muffle her murmurs and moans. He wished she could let free the words she wished to say, that she could share every last secret she’d kept bottled up inside for so long as they made love, but he knew she couldn’t take that chance, not when enemies of an unknown sort may lurk outside, Unsullied who wanted him dead, lords who wanted to have their own way with the Lady of Winterfell, hell, perhaps even Tyrion skulked somewhere, sleeplessly awaiting his own fate on the morrow. 

The mere thought of Sansa saying his name on her kiss-reddened lips, in her husky voice, as her eyes closed in ecstasy had heat slinking down his spine, his balls tightening, and he fought against it, not wanting to give up this bit of heaven, the only one he’d ever have, quite yet. 

The rough stone of the wall scraped against the backs of his hands as he ran them down Sansa’s body, caressing and gripping and soothing, before slipping one between them. He thrummed his thumb over her clit, and it didn’t take long then for Sansa to peak, shuddering and panting and clenching tight around his cock. 

“Don’t stop now,” she urged, once she caught her breath and her body loosened again. He swore she was wetter still as he plunged back into her, and she seemed to feel no less pleasure than before as he continued on, making every attempt to last until he could no longer. His pace started to slow, his rhythm growing erratic, his hips stuttering and stopping as he came, clutching Sansa to him, knotting his hands in her hair, pressing his lips to hers. 

After, in the absence of the sounds of their coupling, as his breath slowed and his skin cooled, as he failed to find any words to comfort or console, it was silent, and so were the tears he felt Sansa cry against his chest. 

The Wall.

He could live with the Wall. He _would_ live, thanks to the Wall. 

There may be no need for the Night’s Watch any longer, but there he would find use for Castle Black and for himself. And he would be in the North, able to serve Sansa any way she wished, whether it was love or duty. 

A day ago he might have accepted this as his penance, a chance for him to repent, a place where he didn’t need to do any true good, but simply avoid doing any more bad. He would have welcomed the solitude, the monotony, the inexorable cold. At the very least, he would have been far, far away from this place and its piles of ash and painful reminders. 

Now, though... now the sun hung bright in the sky, its rays shone off the water on which they sailed, and the wind brought a bit of warmth to his cheeks that for once had none to do with the smoldering of a city or dragonfire. 

The first time he’d gone to the Wall he’d been the definition of a green boy: naïve, starry-eyed, eager to prove himself. He was no longer that boy, those illusions vanishing a literal lifetime ago. 

And still, he felt something niggling at him that he hadn’t in a long while, not since the moment the Night King had shattered, or perhaps even before that, when they’d taken back Winterfell, or when Sansa had arrived outside the gates of Castle Black. 

As he stood on deck, he watched Bran and Arya take their leave from the dock where he’d bid them farewell, the remains of King’s Landing growing distant and finally even Sansa’s red hair disappearing, and at last he put a name to that feeling, and permitted himself to stoke the hope unfurling in his chest.


End file.
